Last time I wrote, the Faith in Action crew was on their way down the mountain, and Pinalito was battening the hatches against the four-month rainy season. Although it is not exactly “Forest Gump in Vietnam” rain, Pinalito must prepare for isolation as the road quickly washes away, for coughs and colds and the dreaded flu as rainy afternoons drench the last set of dry clothes, and for stomach parasites as the puddles collect sewage. The corn prices rise, and will not decrease until the next crop is harvested at the end of August.
And what’s worse for the struggling villagers this year—it seems that missionaries have turned their backs.
Of course, that not true, exactly…for an angry parent still loves a child while she is grounded. I was frustrated with my neighbors after the corn, beans, rice and sugar were stolen from the mission without police or village intervention. When I stomped away from the small “committee” of men that afternoon, angrily shouting that I wouldn’t buy their children more food just so that it could be stolen, I didn’t turn around. In the weeks that followed the robberies, I often stayed in the apartment with the door shut, still sick with flu and whatever cough or cold that hit my weakened system. In those weeks, the weight of the village became overly cumbersome for my shoulders.
My discomfort increased with reports like those of Gregorio, the father of young Esmeralda, our epileptic patient, and Angelino, the step-father of tiny Nirsa, my elfin friend who survived a scary bout with pneumonia. After Ron Moro paid for Esmeralda’s stay in the hospital and all of her medical tests, Gregorio approached Pinalito’s wonderful pastor, Domingo, to ask for help from the offering basket, “forgetting” the fact that he had already received a large donation. Domingo only raised his eyebrows at his neighbor; denying the request. And I cannot forget Angelino, Nirsa’s step-father, who approached my door twice with a drunken swagger, insisting that I give money to help his step-daughter in the hospital, despite my recent visit to Nirsa and her mother in the pediatric ward to hand over a generous wad of bills. The image Nirsa’s tiny, malnourished body throbbed in my head as I considered Angelino leaning against the doorpost, reeking of moonshine.
As the line of demands grew outside the door, I was no longer joyful as I tried to clothe the poor and feed the hungry, for the responsibility was too great, and the people were pulling at my load mercilessly. I felt as though the yoke I have always carried in Pinalito—the yoke of being an American with money to help those in need—was askew, and I no longer had the energy to adjust the strap.
At last, my neighbors began to notice my stagger. “The Americans have changed!” they marveled to the pastor— “They won’t buy us food! They are turning away the widows—even the ones with children!”
Pastor Domingo nodded. He has the eyes of a wise old sage, and had his sermons ready for this day. The next Sunday, he reminded his congregation of the beggar at the gates called Beautiful—Acts chapter 3.
“One Sabbath, when Peter and John go to pray, they encounter a crippled beggar who was brought to sit daily outside the temple, at gates called “Beautiful”. This beggar, retells Domingo, “was doing pretty well in his location, taking advantage of the charity of temple-goers. Luke tells us that he had been crippled from birth. He was accustomed to putting his hand out every day. When Peter and John approached the gates and called for this beggar’s attention, he expected another coin or two. But Peter had another notion of charity: in the name of Jesus Christ, he commanded the man to rise and walk.”
“If that beggar had known that God could raise him to his feet,” Domingo continued, “he would have asked Peter for this miracle. Instead, he wasted all of his time reaching out for spare coins.”
The congregation didn’t need any further explanation. They understood what it meant to be the beggar, and realized that they needed to look further than the hands of us tired Americans. I, in turn, remembered my compassion when I realized that my neighbors simply didn’t know a life apart from begging for handouts. Like the beggar at the gates of the temple, their poverty seemed to be a habit impossible to break. They had never been taught to rely on their power of their own two feet.
The following week, Juan Carlos, the village “president” went down to Zacapa to solicit food for the village schoolchildren. He carried with him a petition from every parent in Pinalito. A few days later, a representative from a Guatemalan foundation is knocking at my door to find out how his Government can help these mountain people. The next Tuesday, he is back to take a census of women and children.
Pastor Domingo has continued to be the silent sage of Pinalito. Like Peter, he does not have gold or silver to give the beggars, but he knows what a poor Guatemalan economy can support, and he envisions how the people can move forward independently. Recently, he has been building a bread oven in his backyard. With the help of the villagers, they have crafted a dome out of adobe and mud, and it is slowly drying in the morning sun. On August 17th, Domingo and three villagers will fire up the oven for the first time, and he will begin to employ another baker and a salesman.
Domingo’s wife, Carolina, has also stepped forward as a leader. The woman is a real fireball, often speaking ten words before slowing down to explain the first. Together, Carolina and I have collected several boxes of donated clothing and shoes and inventoried them into a small monthly market. The clothing prices are greatly reduced, but she tells me that we must apply some value to every item that the villagers receive.
When Carolina held the market two weeks ago, I was in Guatemala City, and worried about how the people would react to the price tags. When I returned to the mountain however, Carolina laughed at my anxiety. “You better believe they complained about the prices! They grumbled and whined and demanded! But I stood firm! I know my people! And you know what… they shopped! They came to me with piles of shirts and dresses, but instead of paying me with spare change or tortillas, they handed over bills of one-hundred!”
These people have some money; she went on to assure me. The longer we assume that they are poor, the longer they will live as if they are beggars. That weekend, we collected Q150 from clothing sales. (About $20) Q100 went into the church offering plate, and the remaining Q50 will be invested in men’s jeans for the August market.
Domingo and Carolina didn’t stop there. The literacy classes that I have wanted to begin for so long have finally started. Carolina arranged a meeting with the Guatemalan literacy foundation, ConAlfa, and we learned how to put pencils and notebooks into the hands of the beggar. Here is a picture of the women’s class, which we hold three times weekly in my classroom. The women are working on vowels for now— they practice constantly, even in their houses, where they must sharpen their pencil with their husband’s or brother’s machete.
You know, the story of the beggar at the gates of Beautiful does not end abruptly in Acts. Peter heals the man, and he rises to follow the disciples into the temple, where he praises God and becomes an astonishing testimony to all who have seen his crippled body at the entrance each day.
Likewise, Pinalito has become God’s encouragement for me. I do not rise in the morning and think of the impossibility, but of what God can do through faith to raise up the beggar.
My joy, as always, continues with education. Maribel, my dear friend and neighbor, comes to my door every day at 5:00 for reading classes. Thank you, dear supporters, for giving us the opportunity to read together. This is Maribel using a computer reading game on one of the donated laptops.
When I care for my neighbors, I cannot simply fork over bills or bowls of chicken soup—with this mentality, my burden is too heavy to bear. Instead, Pastor Domingo and Carolina have taught me how to raise the people to their feet, and thus share my load with many.
Pinalito is in a "time of refreshing." Look at the building, with the mural by Julie Rais, that truly has become a community center.
